


Second Best Bed

by Lilachigh



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Inspector Morse - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:19:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilachigh/pseuds/Lilachigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is for  who wanted James Hathaway as a priest, not a policemen.  This isn't quite what was in mind, perhaps, but hope it is of interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Best Bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dkwilliams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/gifts).



For who wanted James Hathaway, from “Lewis” as a priest.  
This isn’t quite what was asked for, but do hope it is of some interest.

Second Best Bed

It was the smell that offended him the most. He could - surprising himself - deal with the sick and the dying, even the children with their shaved heads and bright, burning eyes. He didn’t know if his words of comfort brought any, but he said them as he’d been taught, as he believed he should.

No, it was the smell - unquantifiable but a mixture of cooked meat, urine, recycled air and fear. It clung to his skin and even the hottest of showers the seminary could offer did nothing to drive it away.

But there was no choice - studying for the priesthood meant a year doing community service and he’d been given this large Oxford hospital to serve in. James Hathaway settled the heavy leather belt around his waist and walked steadily along the corridor towards his next patient. Service - that was what he’d been called to do - serve God in this fashion, apparently, serve the community, serve mankind. It was supposed to give him a wider knowledge and understanding of suffering, of the world, of where his duty really belonged. He had a nasty feeling that all it was doing was hardening him, building a shell of indifference behind which he could shelter. His words of comfort sounded as if they were being read off flash cards.

As he rounded a corner, a man came out of a room, a face lined with character but haggard now, lips tightened in the way so many men did when they were determined not to cry.

James hesitated and consulted his notebook. Yes, this was the room and from the look on the man’s face, he was probably just in time.

“Sorry, Father!” The man blew his nose vigorously, drowning James’ reply that he wasn’t quite one yet. “He won’t want to see you. He doesn’t believe in God. Silly old bugger!”

James shrugged. Hardly anyone did these days but it didn’t make any difference. He still had to try and, he thought dryly, it was amazing the number of people who decided they did believe at this late stage.

“I’ll just go in, sit a while. He may want to talk.”

“The doctor tells me he’s only got a few hours now. He’s sent me off to get a cup of tea. I don’t think he wants me here when he - goes. Anyone would think I’d never seen a dead body before.”

With this odd remark, the man turned and walked away.

The room was cool and dark. Machines beeped quietly and somewhere, a radio was tuned very quietly into Classical FM - Mozart. At first James thought the figure in the bed was asleep. He could see grey hair, the humped shoulder of blue pyjamas, a muddle of newspaper lying on the floor. Suddenly he realised a very bright blue eye was gazing at him, speculatively and a hoarse voice said,

“If you’re the angel of death come to escort me, you shouldn’t be wearing squeaky shoes. Don’t you chaps hover about the place usually.”

“Good afternoon, Mr....” he inspected the notes again, “Oh, Mr Morse. My name’s Hathaway.”

“Like the cottage? Like his wife? Any relation?”

“None that I know of. No second best beds in my family.”

“Ha!” Morse struggled to sit up and James crossed to the bed and pushed the pillows higher behind his back. “Like this bloody thing I’m stuck in now. My sofa at home’s far ore comfortable. Don’t know why they couldn’t have left me there to pop my clogs. Funny things wills. Bring out the best and the worst in people, even Shakespeare. Hope Robbie won’t be bothered too much by mine. Want to make things easier for him.”

“Robbie - would that be your son, Inspector Morse?”

“What? Son?” There was a long paused and James wondered if the man had dozed off again, or even died. Then, “As good as. No, not as good as - better than.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like me to pray?”

The eyes shot open again. “Good God, no. You don’t really believe all that mumbo-jumbo, do you?”

James fingered his collar. “Well, if I don’t, then I shouldn’t be wearing this.”

“True. Still, you haven’t finished at the Seminary yet, I suppose. Plenty of time to change your mind. Do something worthwhile with your life.”

“Isn’t this worthwhile?” The words were out before James could stop them and he felt a flash of annoyance with himself. He was supposed to be giving comfort and compassion to a man in his last few hours on this earth, not questioning his own vocation.

Again there was a long pause: James had the feeling that the man was desperately garnering his strength to speak. “You’re young - educated. Oxford man?”

“Cambridge.”

A wince and a shudder. “Pity but too late to change that now. Full of zeal, full of a desire to help people - even old sinners like me. Well, whatever lies ahead for me in the next few hours, nothing you can say will change it.”

James bent his head. There was no sensible answer he could give to that statement. 

“So why spend your time tending to the dying? Get out there and help those who are still have their lives ahead of them. Those who are damaged, attacked, the helpless and the feeble. Anyone who needs protecting.”

James nodded. This wasn’t the time and place to argue about the path his future should take. Mr Morse had sunk back down into the bed, his face greyer than before: it was obviously only a matter of time now and James wished the other man, his son Robbie, would come back before it was too late. He’d been heading for the canteen; it would only take a few minutes to find and alert him.

He was at the door, aware that his shoes did, indeed squeak, when a sound made him turn. Mr Morse had pushed himself up onto one elbow, the effort making him sway. “If you’ve got any sense, which being a Cambridge man, I seriously doubt, you’ll give up this priest malarkey and join the police force.”

And he sunk back into a haze of death and Mozart as James Hathaway hurried away to find a man called Robbie.

ends.


End file.
